The Berlin Connection (8 page)

The Second Tape

The moment I stepped through the open plate-glass doors of the hotel, floodlights were switched on; a camera attached to the roof of a car swung toward me and about a hundred people, many of them women and teenagers, began to scream, wave and applaud. They were held back by police forming a barrier on the other side of the street. Surprised, I stood motionless.

It was six o'clock in the evening. The rain had stopped but it was still stormy. The sky, a few stars already visible, was sea-green and cloudless in the twilight. I was blinded by the floodlights. The crowd broke through the police barrier and stormed across the street. Tires screamed on the rain-soaked asphalt; the traffic came to a halt. I saw many people waving autograph books and photographs. Two men came running toward me. One held a microphone, the other the cable. The people in the crowd were yelling joyfully. The picture was a familiar one. As did Dr. Pavlov's dog, my reflexes reacted too, the way I had been taught a long time ago. I opened my arms wide, nodded and waved, smiled, to show I loved them all.

I heard boos, derisive laughter. Then the reporter had reached me.

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"Stop it, man," one of them yelled. The other pushed me and cried, "Get out of the way! You are blocking the cameraman's picture!"

Stumbling, I reached the other side of the street. Now I was in the midst of the crowd of screaming women. They were all staring at the hotel entrance. There I now saw Sophia Loren and Vittorio de Sica.

His white hair shone in the bright lights. Sophia Loren wore a mink coat over a skin-tight, gold lame dress. She was throwing kisses, De Sica opened his arms wide, just as I had done a moment ago. The crowd was in a frenzy, the police powerless. I was pushed towards the entrance of the hotel bar, and I heard De Sica exclaim, "Amici, si-amo fehci d'essere in Germania!"

And Sophia Loren, "Questa bella citta d'Amburgo!"

The crowd roared.

I heard whistles, patrol cars arrived. Policemen were trying to control the crowd and move the stopped traffic. I watched the beautiful Sophia Loren and De Sica, whom I admired as an actor and director, smilingly sign autographs. I recalled the time, the crowds, the conmiotion, now long ago and forgotten, when I, a httle boy in a pageboy haii:cut, had appeared. The chaos at the Waldorf-Astoria, the hysteria at the Colonial House in Tokyo, where fans had torn my clothes to get hold of souvenirs, hotels in Vienna, Quebec and Rome.

Suddenly I felt sick and fearful again. I had felt well when I awakened an hour ago. I had showered, eaten and written two letters which I was now taking to the nearby post office. Those letters had to go cpiickly and I did not trust the bellboys. Since my attack I distrusted everybody. The waiter serving dinner seemed to be smiling ironically. Walking through the foyer I had the feeling that the desk-clerks were exchanging meaningful looks . . .

I had noticed a new symptom: agoraphobia. It had been extremely difficult for me to walk through the foyer. This was not a new symptom, once before, as I left my

apartment, I found myself unable to enter the elevator. I was certain I could never descend in this narrow, hot cell with its mirrored sides without—

Without what?

Without doing something which would attract attention, something alarming, something I could not control. The realization gave me a fright; I ran back to my apartment where I felt safer as soon as I had shut the door. I was supposed to stay in bed. I had given Natasha my promise.

But the letters had to be mailed. Shirley and I were at stake.

I had to have a drink. There was enough left in the bottle. Then I tried again. This time I could not leave the elevator on the main floor but quickly pressed the sixth-floor button and went back upstairs. My heart was beating furiously. Another Scotch. I dropped into a chair. It was growing dark. I stared at the fog shrouding the Al-ster River.

Now I knew self-pity. I was alone in Hamburg, very ill. The symptoms terrified me. A long way from home. Which was my home? The Spanish-style ghostly house? A double bed alongside an unloved wife? The bungalow with Shirley, who was expecting my child?

I could not stand these thoughts and drank again. Then, with great concentration I tried the descent into the foyer once more. This time with success. I was somewhat confused but not drunk. I was standing away from the crowd, looking at the radiant Sophia Loren, the distinguished De Sica.

It's just as well no one knows me, I thoueht. In my condition I would hardly be able to smile, shake hands, sign autographs.

"Now I've found you," said a trembling voice and very strong, ice-cold fingers encircled my wrist.

Startled I turned around.

The woman holding my wrist was surely seventy years

old-—a most dismal character, clad in a tattered Persian lamb coat. Distressingly thin, white hair straying from her old-fashioned fur hat, worn out high-button boots. Waxen face, hollow-cheeked. Dull sunken eyes, bloodless lips. In her agitation she could hardly speak. "It's almost six o'clock. I've been waiting since nine-thirty."

"Who are you?" Was this reality? Was this old lady flesh and bl^od? Or was she as real as the seagull?

"I'm Hermine Gottesdiener," she said with extreme dignity.

"You have been waiting that long for me?"

"At first I was waiting in the foyer. At three, when the clerks changed shifts, I was told to leave. No one has dared to speak to me in that manner, never! To think that my husband, may he rest in peace, and I celebrated our weddine right here in this hotel!"

"When was that?"

"Nineteen thirteen. And today I'm told to leave . . ."

She was carrying an old handbag slung over one arm and a flat, heavy package under the other.

"I said to myself you have to come down sometime. I would have waited another eight hours. I would have waited until I dropped."

"But why?"

Her fingers were still holding my wrist. "Because you are my last hope, Mr. Jordan. If you don't help me now I'm going to end it all."

She wept genuine tears and let them fafl without a dab of a handkerchief. Her hands were otherwise busy holding her package, her handbag and my wrist.

I have never forgotten the poverty we endured when I was a child. I have never forgotten cold, hunger or shame.

"You must be hungry, Mrs. Gottesdiener."

"Yes. No. Yes."

"We'll go to a restaurant and you'll tell me everything. But 1 must go to the post office first."

Her nails dug into my arm. "You want to get rid of me. You'll go back to the hotel where I'll be thrown out.'*

"I won't go back to the hotel."

"I've waited too long. I'U come to the post office with you."

Now two shiny black cars pulled up in front of the hotel. Sophia Loren, Vittorio De Sica and their entourage got in. The people crowded around the cars. They yelled and laughed. Mrs, Gottesdiener was walking with short unsteady little steps. She was still holding on to my wrist.

The first letter was addressed to Mr. Gregory Bates, 1132 Horthbury Avenue, Los Angeles, California, USA.

The second letter was addressed to Miss Shirley Brom-field, care of Post Office, Pacific PaHsades, California, USA. To my stepdaughter I wrote:

Dearest Heart,

I know exactly how you must feel when you read this letter. Let me say right now, before anything else: I love you. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you; I shall never ever want anyone as much as I want you.

Years ago a woman told me I could not love, did not know love. I don't know if that is true. All I know is: All I feel, tenderness, longing, courage, patience, selflessness, trust, loving care and admiration, is directed toward you. As great, or whatever love may be in me, is all yours and will be yours until I die.

Shirley, my All, you must now be brave and reasonable. Reasonable — what a horrible word. And yet, now we must use good judgment. It is impossible for you to have this child. The scandal would surely ruin our future. 1 detest myself for forcing you to do this dreadful deed

but I swear I shall make it up to you, soon. I will take care of you, protect you, love you. We shall have a child, Shirley — but not this one.

I am also writing to Gregory Bates. You know him, he is my best friend, and you can trust him. Gregory knows many doctors. He will know who will be able to help you quickly and safely.

I am telling him that you came to me for help because you were afraid of your mother, and that the father of your child is a younQ man from the studio. Gregory will not question you. Since he is still producing movies I shall suggest that he ostensibly engage you as a cutter and send you to a different movie location for a few days. This way Joan will not become suspicious.

These letters will be on the jet leaving Hamburg tonight on a direct flight to Los Anpples. They should be in vour post office by tomorrow morning. Please arrange to see Gregory at night. I shall telephone him at his apartr ment at eleven o'clock.

Shirley, dearest Heart, you know I'm making this movie here in Hamburg for both of us. J must, 7 will be as good an actor as I can possible be. Don't despair. Be as brave as J know you can be and believe me when I say this is for both of us.

In my thoughts I am alwavs with vou — united with you on the b^nrh, on our boat, in th'^ hi/n'^nlnw and the dunes: evervw^pre where we were happy together. Soon we will be again. Forever.

Peter P.s. As always, destroy this letter at once.

"In his speech before the First Soviet in Moscow, Prime Minister Khrushchev again threated Berlin . . ." The voice of the newscaster came softly through the dark little restaurant.

Mrs. Gottesdiener and I were sitting at one of the scrubbed tables. She was having sandwiches and a beer. I had ordered whisky.

The contents of Mrs. Gottesdiener's package, a heavy scrapbook, was before me. "Surely there isn't another collection like this anywhere," she said, her mouth stuffed with food. "Take your time. There are pictures from all your movies and travels."

Old magazine stills, postcards, pictures cut from newspaper had been carefully sorted and pasted in, bordered with colored pencils, decorated with little stars and flowers. There I was, sitting on Mayor La Guardia's lap. There was the tickertape parade on Broadway. There was my mother, her smile distorted after her face operation. There were the premieres of Huckleberry Finn, Oliver Twist and Treasure Island. These yellowed pages were my youth. This old book, emitting the smeU of mothballs, evanescence and poverty reflected the years of my fame.

"Algeria. A new wave of terror hit several towns. Bombs killed 17 people, injured 65 . .."

"This is only the first of three scrapbooks," said Mrs. Gottesdiener.

She spoke between quick, hungry bites, while eyeing other sandwiches stacked on the bar. Food had not eased her unhappiness; she ate greedily, without enjoyment, her knife and fork in staccato movements.

"Where did you get those scrapbooks?"

"Good God! My husband owned the largest newspaper

clipping service in North Germany!" She used a finger to capture an elusive bit of ham. "A very successful business with branches overseas . . ." Now her face was flushed.

"Wouldn't you like to take off your coat and hat?"

"I have very little hair. And I have pawned all my dresses. Vm wearing a duster. Oh, I'm so ashamed . . ." A piece of cucumber. "We were rich once, Mr. Jordan. We had a villa in Cuxhaven. And now . . . now . . . no, I must not think about it. We started the scrapbooks for Victoria . . ."

"Your daughter?"

"Yes. She admired you greatly! She treasured her scrapbooks, even when she was grown." Another sandwich on her plate, yet she kept her eyes on those on the bar.

"Would you like—"

"You must think me brazen ..."

"Waiter!"

"Perhaps I could also have another beer?"

More sandwiches, another beer, and whisky for me. Another drink then I would feel better. I was uneasy and restless. I was sympathetic to this old woman. But did I not have my own problems? T was just wasting my time here. That's what I thought. A few minutes later I had changed my mind.

Mrs. Gottesdiener attacked her last sandwich. "I have a lot of debts, Mr. Jordan. The erocer won't give me credit any more. The electricity has been cut off. If I don't pay my rent I will be sent to an institution. Charity! For me? and we once had the largest clipping service . . ." The waiter came. She pushed the empty plate away, took the full one from his hands and ate and talked with little pause. "Victoria's death used up the last of my savings. You iust don't know how much a reasonably decent funeral costs!"

"When did your daughter die?"

"On the twenty-fifth of April. Why shouldn't I tell you

the truth? She was a morphine addict." Another bite. "Out of the hospital. Back in the hospital." A bite of bread. "At the end she loathed herself." A bite of ham. "In one of her lucid moments she drowned herself in the Elbe." A drink of beer. "He is responsible, that man!"

"Who?"

"Schauberg."

"Her husband?"

"Yes, her husband, God help us! This criminal, this scoundrel. He was addicted first! Then he made an addict of her. Many doctors who are addicted do that, I've read a book about that. They want the people close to them to sink as low as they themselves."

"Your son-in-law is a doctor?"

"He was. He is not allowed to practice now."

"Why not?"

"WeU, because of this addiction. And something happened in his office. He was an internist. He gave a wrong injection. The man died. His wife demanded an investigation. Mr. Jordan, please buy those scrapbooks from me. Help a poor old woman. Do a good deed for a woman who is the last member of a once respected family ..." She continued to talk. That I could see. But I could not hear her any more.

Mrs. Gottesdiener's son-in-law is a doctor. He has violated his oath and the law. He is probably willing to transgress again.

Shirley now needs a person like that. On the other side of the world, in California, Gregory will find such a person for her. Here in Hamburg I have almost found such a man for myself. How curious that Shirley and I should